


Pretty in Ink

by toziuers



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, Idiots in Love, M/M, and richie is a blind bastard, in which eddie gets a sappy tattoo, only tagged fix it because its set after derry in which eddie is alive and well! because he is!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:20:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23004583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toziuers/pseuds/toziuers
Summary: Ten days.It takes ten days before Richie notices anything at all.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 11
Kudos: 285





	Pretty in Ink

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this in. exactly 35 minutes at nearly 4am last night because i wanted sappy gay shit and couldnt find anything sappy enough to read. Be the change you want to see in the world!

If Eddie was a better man, he would not insult his boyfriend. _If Eddie was a better man, he would_ _not insult his boyfriend_. _If Eddie was a better man_ , he would _not_ say that Richie’s done the absolute impossible by putting _idiot_ in _oblivious._

As it stands, though, Richie has done the absolute impossible and put the _idiot_ in _oblivious._

First, it starts like this:

Richie has a niche- a _quirk_ if you will. 

For someone who _loves_ to think they're pretty badass, Richie has taken to writing Eddie notes (l _ove letters, reminders that Eddie doesn't need reminding of, etc._ ) on cute post-it's he finds online or in knick-knacky stationary stores around LA. 

They’re cute, and remind Eddie of middle school esque letters he’d probably find in his locker, if it weren't for the fact they're always tacked on the fridge in plain sight and leave smudge marks that drive him _insane._

Regardless- Richie writes notes. He has a cute habit of writing a _+_ instead of fully writing out the word _and_ , and none of his jokes he leaves at the bottom ever make sense enough for Eddie to laugh but _do_ make him smile obnoxiously to himself in their kitchen as he Lysol wipes away the _fucking_ smudge left by the adhesive. 

He _adores_ the notes, don't get him wrong, but things come to this weird standstill-clarity when Richie brings up the R+E carving one night. 

It's an accident, or it seems like it is, because Richie isn't doing that weird fidgeting thing he does when he wants Eddie to see something but doesn't want to actually _tell_ him to look at it, and just wants him to think he saw it accidentally. He’s been doing it since he was 11, and Eddie has mastered what his tells are by now. 

_Regardless_ , it really seems like an accident, because Richie gasps and says _oh fuck_ quietly, like it was his biggest secret (which is a feat when you hid you were gay for _twenty seven_ _years_ ), when Eddie happens to look over at his phone and ask _what's that?_ innocently. 

“It's nothing!” Richie practically yells, but makes no move to shield Eddie from seeing his phone. 

“It's R+E carved into a wooden board, Richie,” Eddie responds, voice deadpan in the relative quiet of their bedroom- as quiet as LA can get, even this late at night. The only light is coming from their phones, and Eddie can see the way Richie’s panicking just based on his facial expression alone. 

“It's the Kissing Bridge, actually, dickwad,” Richie replies, voice reedy and thin but still trying to be funny. Eddie pauses, a memory slamming into him at full force just by those words alone. 

_He’s 13, peddling his bike lazily towards a figure in the distance. He knows it's Richie, just by the slope of his shoulders and the curl of his hair, even this far away. He doesn't know why he’s out of town this far, but something told Eddie to come down here today, anyway, and he’s happy to see Richie here._

_“Rich!” he yells, and feels himself smile when Richie turns around to see who called his name. His smile drops slightly when he sees how distressed Richie looks- how upset. He pedals a little faster, and hops off his bike when he’s a few feet away from the boy. “Hey dude, what's up?”_

_“Nothin’” is the only response he gets, watching as Richie kicks a rock with the toe of his shoe. He seems in his own head a little too much- thinking, thinking, overthinking._

_“Why're you all the way out here, then?” Eddie asks, still trying to keep his voice light despite the small bout of panic that's welling up inside him at the thought of Richie being upset. He never did like when Richie was upset in anyway- either at him, or in general._

_“Listen- you don't have to pretend to care,” Richie finally says after a beat, kicking another rock- harder this time. It pings off one of the wooden boards of the Kissing Bridge and lands somewhere near the middle of the road._

_“Huh?” is all Eddie can think to respond with, thoroughly confused as to where this is coming from. “What do you mean? Of course I actually care, Rich,” Eddie says, feeling the panic coil tighter in his stomach._

_Richie just hums, still not making eye contact._

_“You're my best fucking friend, why wouldn't I care?” Eddie says, feeling as if the curse was necessary so Richie would_ understand _. “C’mon don’t be stupid. I mean it,” Eddie says gently, dropping his bike and moving closer to Richie. He reaches out and pushes Richie's shoulder gently, just so he'll look at him._

_This seems to get through to Richie, and he finally looks up, giving Eddie a small smile. “You're so annoying, sometimes, you know that Spaghetti?” he says, looping an arm around Eddie’s shoulders._

_“Shut up, don't call me that,” Eddie responds, but he bends to pick up his bike again regardless, without dislodging Richie’s arm, and starts walking back towards town with him._

_“Here,” Eddie says after a few moments of silence. He pulls out a lollipop, one of the good ones from the pharmacy that Richie always tries to take more than one of even though that's not allowed. Richie lights up, even if minutely and slings his arm tighter around Eddie. “Thanks, Eds!” he says happily._

_It makes Eddie scowl, the nickname, but at least the panic subsided seeing Richie happier._

“Holy fuck,” Eddie says softly, blinking hard to come back to reality and looking over at Richie’s phone again where the picture was still up. “You carved our initials into the Kissing Bridge?” he asks, voice slightly full of awe. It surprises him, a little, even though they've discussed at length about how Richie's been _gone_ for Eddie since they were kids (and vice versa, but Eddie digresses).

“Fuckin’- maybe. I don't know. Yeah,” Richie says in a rush, hand running through his hair in embarrassment, or maybe anxiety. “I was like- 13. It was on this one day you just happened to show up-”

“And then you accused me of not caring about you, yeah. I just remembered,” Eddie says, bumping his shoulder with Richie’s and giving him a soft smile. They do that often, the small shoulder bumps when one of them remembers something. It doesn't happen as often, now, this late after being back but- it still happens sometimes. “Idiot,” he says, softer than before but ten times full of love. 

He has a moment, then, a quiet acceptance of _oh yeah, I love this man more than anything_ , one that leaves him a little dizzy and off kilter for a second. It's not the first time he’s realized, but the first time he's felt it this strongly in a while. He leans over to kiss Richie, just because he can, and then suddenly an idea starts to form in his head. He falls asleep thinking about it, and says nothing. 

Next, it goes like this:

He starts collecting the notes Richie leaves him. Not that he didn't before, but- he starts squirreling them away. Leaving them in a tiny box in his at-home office that Richie never goes into unless Eddie’s already in there, and even _then_ he just pops his head in to ask a question. So, really, there's no chance of Richie finding all his notes in the inconspicuous tiny box shoved into his locked desk drawer. No. 

Eddie doesn't even know why he’s hiding them- It's not like Richie would think it was _weird_ he was keeping them or anything. They _were_ notes written _for_ him. 

Eddie digresses. 

Once he’s accumulated a sizable stack, a few months worth of notes, he starts hunting. 

_Hunting_ , meaning looking for the perfect letters to complete what he wants to. All he needs is three things: an _R_ , an _E_ , and a neat little _+_ that Richie so often uses. 

All he needs are those three things, but it takes him _weeks_ to find the perfect combination. But when he finds it- _oh,_ he finds it. 

Next, he tucks the letters with his desired things away safely into his pants pocket, tells Richie he’s going out for a while, and finds himself at one of the nicer tattoo shops he could get an appointment at with this short notice (because for all his planning, the actual _call_ was not planned- he just decided this morning that today was the day). They greet him warmly, ask him what he’s looking for, and after a 5 minute consultation and some paperwork, he’s sitting in the chair watching his soon-to-be tattoo artist stencil in the letters he’s about to get actually _tattooed._

He thought he’d be more nervous- or even more neurotic about the whole thing. But the place is clean, sparklingly so, and he’s never had any fear of needles, so. The whole process just seems easy. 

He tells the artist where he wants it (left arm, right above the crease of his elbow- easy to hide but also easily visible, which is the goal), sits still as the stencil is placed, looks in the mirror some, tells her he’s happy with the placement, waits until it dries, and then they're on their way. 

Eddie can honestly say that getting a tattoo might be the most calming thing he’s gone through- which is ironic, in all aspects of the word. It doesn't really hurt, merely just feels like a cat scratching him, and it's small so it doesn't take long at all. The gentle buzzing almost puts him to sleep, but he’s so interested in watching the actual inking, he barely blinks. It's fascinating, knowing this is going to be on him forever. For all the things he _does_ regret in his life, this definitely isn't even _close_ to being one of them. The tattoo artist finishes up, cleans it, and wraps it in clear wrap all while explaining the aftercare, and Eddie listens diligently, despite her also handing him a paper with the same instructions on it. 

He thanks her profusely, pays, and makes his way back to the house feeling like he’s walking on cloud nine. He’s so ecstatic, but also doesn't want to outright _tell_ Richie, just rather- see his reaction when he notices. 

It's Eddie's fault for thinking Richie is a perceptive person at all, though. 

Which brings them back to now, one week and three days later, Richie still having no idea Eddie fucking tattooed their initials on his arm for the whole world to see. 

Eddie’s done everything- worn shorter sleeves than usual despite it being winter (or as winter as LA can get, honestly), stretched obnoxiously and reached for things with his left arm right in Richie’s face, draped his arm across Richie’s torso at night so his arm was right in the line of his eyesight- _everything._

Eddie's even stuck his arm _in front of_ Richie’s glasses and- _nothing._ Absolutely nothing. He's exasperated, really. Who _knew_ his boyfriend was this blind ( _he_ knew, deep down, but he prays for little miracles even so). 

How Richie _does_ find out, is late one night, when both of them are just laying in bed, Eddie on his laptop and Richie just laying next to him doing nothing. He doesn't even have his glasses on, it's that late at night. 

“Eds- Eds,” Richie says, voice vaguely sleepy. Eddie hums, but doesn't stop typing. “You have- you got like marker on your arm,” he informs Eddie, squinting to try and see clearer. 

“What? No, I don't,” Eddie says, finally stopping typing to look down at his arms. There's no marker in sight. 

Richie hums, a soft _mhm_ sound, and reaches for his left arm. “Right- _here_ ,” he says, thumb rubbing over _the fucking tattoo_. Eddie’s breath catches in his throat. “Wait, why is there like fucking, vaseline on your arm, what the fuck?” he asks, sitting up and reaching for his glasses. 

“Wait-” Eddie starts, other hand reaching out to, he doesn't know, stop him? Try and explain before Richie can see for himself? He’s not entirely sure. 

But it's too late- Richie’s put on his glasses and is staring directly at Eddie’s arm. The arm that has the fucking tattoo reading R+E in Richie’s own scrawly handwriting. Eddie suddenly can't breathe.

“Eddie,” Richie says slowly, blinking hard like he can't believe what he's seeing. He looks a little like he’s about to cry- which for Richie, means he’s _definitely_ about to cry. “Tell me that is not a fucking tattoo,” he says, voice cracking on the last syllable. 

“Uh,” is all Eddie manages, looking down at his arm like he didn't know the tattoo was there. Like he hasn't been waiting ten days for this exact exchange. 

“What the fuck,” Richie says, voice cracking again. He’s crying now, and Eddie panics slightly. 

“Please just say you don't hate it,” Eddie gets out, pushing his laptop towards the foot of the bed and turning towards Richie. His shoulders are shaking something fierce, and Eddie doesn't know what to do with his hands. 

Richie shakes his head in lieu of a verbal response, and lets out a half choked sob. He shoves his head into Eddie’s shoulder, and Eddie’s hands immediately come up to wrap around Richie in a sort of hug, half awkward embrace. “It's so fucking- _fuck_ ,” Richie sobs out, not providing Eddie with any information on how he actually feels over it. 

“I can like- I will go through the pain of getting it laser removed if you hate it, Tozier,” Eddie says with a weak laugh, only half meaning what he says, but terrified of the fact he might _have_ to. 

“Why didn't you _tell me_ ,” Richie says, sniffling loudly and letting out another soft sob. “That's- that's my _handwriting_.”

“It was supposed to be a surprise! I was waiting for you to notice!” Eddie exclaims, rubbing his hands up and down Richie’s back to try and calm him down. “It took you ten days! Ten whole fucking days, Richie!” 

Richie laughs miserably, letting out another few sobs before they seem to trickle off into small hiccups. He sits up again, wiping his eyes under his glasses, and grabs Eddie’s arm to get a better look than he did before. 

“Eds, it's so fucking _cute_ ,” Richie finally gets out, and Eddie deflates visibly in relief. “Get this laser removed and I’ll eat my fist,” he threatens, and Eddie laughs at the absurdity of the comment. 

“Please don't eat your fist,” he says gently, looking down at his arm. It's healed nicely, so far, but there's still a little left to go. “You really like it?” he asks, just because he needs to hear Richie really say it. 

“I _love it_ ,” Richie stresses, thumb running over the lines gently. Eddie shivers from the sensitivity. “Like, love it so much I’m considering making you write me the same thing in _your_ handwriting so I can get it done tomorrow,” he says, very seriously, and Eddie’s heart rate picks up. 

“Yeah?” Eddie asks anyway. 

“For sure, Spaghetti,” Richie nods, leaning over to kiss Eddie for good measure. Eddie hums into the kiss and smiles despite himself. 

“That's so fucking- fucking sappy,” Eddie says with a small laugh, feeling tears well up in his own eyes. 

“You got the tattoo first! You're the sappy one!” Richie argues, thumbs coming up to rub underneath Eddie’s eyes to catch the few stray tears. 

If they end up at the same tattoo parlor the next day, Richie in the chair getting nearly the same design as Eddie just in different handwriting, well. The tattoo artist who did Eddie’s tattoo just gives him a knowing smile and goes on her way. 


End file.
